Tumblr Ficlets
by The Moonmoth
Summary: Collection of ficlets written for various prompts on Tumblr.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Notes:**__ By request, I'm going to be uploading all of my SanSan fic to this site over the next couple of weeks. So, we're starting with the easy (read: short) ones ;) This little group of ficlets was written for prompts dropped in my ask box on my old Tumblr account._

_**First Published:** 8th April 2012_

_**Warnings:**__ Mention of past abuse, name-calling, crack (please note: these warnings are for the entire work, not just this chapter)_

* * *

Prompt 1: drawing crazy patterns on your sheets, or anything baby blue.

"Here, girl," Sandor said, reaching over to her. She was still breathless from the gallop along the track to the farmstead she was visiting, but her breath caught in her throat as he reached up to tuck a loose auburn curl back into her hairnet.

It had been a nameday present from her brother, the stones a beautiful clear baby blue. The new doeskin gloves were a gift from Arya; the jewelled knife strapped inside her boot from Lord Cerwyn; the horse itself from the Manderlys. Her nameday - the first one of the new spring - had been an embarrassment of riches, but the thing she savoured most that day was the way her sworn shield touched her cheek gently with the rough pad of his thumb before they spurred their horses to walk on towards the farm house in the bright spring sunshine.


	2. Chapter 2

Prompt 2: Sansa is a bit depressed and asks the Hound to sing for her

Sansa's fever had broken earlier in the evening, but the maester had still said she should not be left alone through the night, and so Sandor had sent her exhausted maids away and pulled up a chair by her bedside. She woke before dawn, asking groggily for water, her eyes still closed.

"Here, little bird," he said, raising her head gently with one hand as he pressed a skin of cool water to her parched lips with the other.

"Sandor?" she asked after she had drunk her fill, trying to open her eyes, squinting against the dim light of the candle at her bedside as though she were staring into the sun. "Is that you?"

He could remember each time she had called him by name, and wished suddenly for her to say it under better circumstances.

"Yes," he said, her own name catching in his throat, for in truth he was no better.

She smiled faintly. "You didn't… chastise me… for being stupid," she said softly. "Who else… would call me 'little bird'?"

"Another time, perhaps," Sandor replied feebly, looking over her pale skin, almost grey with days of sickness, the unhealthy sheen the cold sweat had brought.

"Am I so ill?" she whispered, blinking slowly at him.

"You're getting better," he replied.

She smiled again, and held out her hand to him, trembling with the effort so that he took it quickly and without argument. It forced him to move to sit on the edge of her bed, but she seemed little concerned with the lapse in propriety right now.

"I feel so weak… hot and cold all at once…"

With his free hand, Sandor reached for the cloth in the washbasin standing by the head of her bed, squeezing it out before laying it across her forehead. Her small sigh of relief pricked him somewhere deep in his chest, the aching, bleeding wound she had first made as a girl, and had never since allowed to heal.

"Thank you," she murmured, and turned her face into his touch when he allowed his fingers to trace gently down her cheek.

"Go back to sleep, little bird," he rasped softly, stroking the line of her cheekbone with the pad of his thumb, and watched as her eyelids fluttered obediently closed. "You'll feel better in the morning."

"Hmm," she sighed again, a soft smile transforming her face for a moment. "Will you sing me a song?"

Sandor snorted and withdrew his hand from her face, though she tightened her grip on the hand she held in hers. "No, little bird. I can't sing."

"A story, then," she insisted sleepily.

Sandor looked at her face, looked down at the way she had twined her fingers through his.

"Aye, all right then, a story," he said.


	3. Chapter 3

Prompt 3: Sansa and Sandor struggle to make a living on a desolate island near the Fingers, and a storm is coming…

He finally found her standing atop the cliffs watching the storm roll in, sky an ugly yellow, the wind whipping clothes and hair hard enough to sting. She had not spoken to him since the morning. Since the argument.

"Sansa!" he shouted, voice barely audible over the howling of the wind, the booming of the sea.

Gods, he had not known she had such passion in her. He did not even remember what they had argued on, only that he had been hard and dazed by lust by the time she had shaken his hand from her arm with a look of fury and stormed out of their tiny stone house above the harbour. Her cold veneer of courtesy shattered and discarded on the floor.

"Sansa!" he tried again, salt spray lashing his skin, but it was no good, she could not hear him.

Funny how his little bird, who was still at times scared of the shadows, could stand up there in the gale and not feel afraid. And yet, she somehow did not look dwarfed by the storm, but part of it. As though the years of captivity, the weeks of running, the lifetime of fear had not diminished her as he had feared that first day he had snatched her out from Littlefinger's clutches, but strengthened her.

Looking at her now, he saw for the first time a woman who had steel in her spine and fire in her heart, water at her feet and wind in her hair, the elements at her command.

And him, too. Him most of all.

Later, as the storm raged against the house he had taken to hide her away in, the shutters groaning and banging, fire roaring, Sansa Stark pushed him down on the sheepskin and fucked him with all the fury, all the passion of the elements.

He had thought he was waiting for her to feel stronger, safer. He had thought he was holding himself back from claiming her. It turned out he had been waiting all along for her to claim him.


	4. Chapter 4

Prompt 4: the Dragon Queen grants Sandor a single wish

"…for your loyal service during the war," Daenerys finished. "If it is within my power to grant, it is yours."

Sansa didn't realise she was holding her breath until she let it out again in a long, slow, slightly shaky exhale. In truth she did not know _what_ a man like Sandor Clegane would ask for. He had more gold than he was ever like to spend, a place in her household at Winterfell, _and my gratitude_. She had thought that he seemed… happy… in her service. Certainly she had never felt safer, more content, than when he was at her side.

When he requested lordship of the Dreadfort, Sansa felt almost faint at the thought that he would seek to leave her.

"But he hates titles," she said softly to herself later that evening, sitting alone by her fire after her bath, drying her hair. It made no sense.

And then it struck her, cold and hard like a mailed fist. _He means to marry. _What else could it be? She felt numb at the thought that he might love a woman. A woman who was not… whom she had never met.

Her mind was so disturbed by the idea that she did not even think about what she was doing as she rose to answer the knock at her door, wearing nothing more than her bed gown and robe. Sandor stood on the other side, his face curiously blank. They stared at each other.

"Are you going to let me in, little bird?" he finally asked.

"No," she said softly, hand clenching on the handle of the door. She thought she saw a crack in his expression, a flash of pain and anger in his grey eyes.

"You will not hear me?"

What could she say? She was dressed only in her bed clothes, but he was her hound; she could not turn him away. She would not. Reluctantly, heart pounding and sick to her stomach, she stood back from the door and allowed him entrance.

"Am I to call you Lord Clegane now?" she asked the fire.

She felt his presence at her back, his great bulk and towering height, the warmth of his body, so reassuring. _Why does he wish to leave me?_

And then his hand on her chin, turning her face towards him until their eyes met once more. His big hand, rough with use, but gentle and warm against her skin. "I had hoped you might wish to call me something else," he rasped, eyes angry. Eyes hopeful. And then it struck her.


	5. Chapter 5

Prompt 5: hands

His hand on her waist as he helps her down from her horse is large, large enough to cover the span of her body from the curve of her waist to the swell of her breast. Through the many layers of fabric of her winter dress, she feels the imprint of it, a shadow of warmth. It must be the first time he's touched her since appearing out of the dark corner of her room so suddenly, so unexpectedly it nearly stopped her heart. And now they are on the run, and he has been remarkably restrained, and suddenly she longs for him to take her chin in his hand as he used to and force her to look at him.

She finds herself staring at his hands that night as he builds the fire, skins and dresses the hare he caught, unaccustomedly restless in the absence of conversation.

"You used to speak more," she eventually says, irritable and verging on impatience, though for what she cannot say. "Did they cut your tongue out at your Septry, Brother Sandor?"

He merely snorts – laughter, derision, she cannot tell. "And _you_ used to be courteous, little bird, and never so eager for the sound of my voice."

His remark finds its target. She had been so long as the bastard Alayne that she is still finding her way back to Sansa. That, and the realisation that she _is_ eager for the sound of his voice. _I dreamed of you,_ she suddenly wants to tell him, _relentlessly._ But she does not think he would take it kindly.

That night she dreams of him again, his large hands roaming her body, strumming her like a lyre until she reaches a fever pitch. She wakes mid-climax, a moan on her lips, and jerks into full awareness with her cheeks aflame in the cool, weak rays of the rising sun. As she sits up, little sparks of pleasure still stinging between her thighs, she lets her long hair hang forwards over her face, putting off the moment when she will have to look at him. But it's no good, he's already up and about, and she can _feel_ the weight of his eyes on her bowed head.

When she glances up cautiously, tucking the curtain of her auburn hair behind her ear, it is to meet his smirk from across their campsite. It's an ugly expression, twisted and bitter, and it puts the same twisted and bitter sensation in her stomach when he laughs cruel and low in his throat and asks her, "Pleasant dreams, little bird?"

He is trying to humiliate her, or infuriate her, or she knows not what. What is his role in this game, at any rate? She has trusted him now on the strength of her memories, but it has become oh so clear that he is simply _more_ than she remembered. But she is not his timid little bird anymore, either – she will be Sansa again if she needs must be, but some part of the bastard-brave Alayne will always be with her. And she has never been as afraid of Sandor Clegane as she should.

"Pleasant enough," she replies, lifting her chin. "I dreamt of you."


	6. Chapter 6

Prompt 6: SanSan and puppies

Their friendship had been a long, hard road of arguments and misunderstandings, insults and resentful silences.

Since he had appeared at her beloved Winterfell, stepping straight from the snowstorm like the hero of a song, Lady Stark had relied on her faithful mater-at-arms like no other. Yet she was older, stronger than when he had left her those years ago. She had promised herself she would never be trampled on again. And he… he had never seen the need to do anything but speak his mind. She would not stand to be insulted by any man, yet often he insulted her – for a poor decision, for ignoring good advice.

* * *

Two days ago, after she had informed him of her plan to marry a lord who would bring wealth and stability back to the north, he had called her a scheming whore, compared her to Cersei. She had slapped him full across the face, and uttered some choice words of her own.

Yesterday, she spent the day seething, spinning scenarios in her mind as to how she could humble him.

Then, she saw him tearing his guards to pieces in the training yard, man after man, and she spent the evening in contemplation.

This morning, when the servant arrives with a message from the master-at-arms that his favourite bitch has finally whelped, if she would like to see the puppies, Sansa understands it for what it is: an apology. The type she has learned to accept from him.

* * *

The puppies are a tiny, wriggling mass of new-born life, and when Sandor scoops one up in his large hand and passes it silently to her, Sansa feels herself thaw suddenly and completely.

"Hello," she murmurs to the soft, warm, squirming body, its eyes still closed as though in resistance to the bewildering cacophony of the world. She feels a desperate sympathy for the creature.

"She's yours, if you want her," he says.

Sansa suddenly notices that he is kneeling down between her and the bitch – he had turned away from the dog's nest of straw in the empty stall when he gave her the puppy, and now faces her on one knee. She suddenly notices the look in his eyes. Her heart catches in her throat.

"So am I," he adds hoarsely.

Sansa bursts into tears. She lays the little pup back down in the straw with shaking hands, before she throws herself into his arms.

She won't be marrying a lord after all.


	7. Chapter 7

Prompt 7: hair

His reception at the Queen in the North's court is cool. He tells himself he did not expect it to be any other way; tells himself he is lucky to keep his head on his shoulders.

She accepts his sword and his vows of fealty expressionlessly, and he wonders if she knows that these are the first vows he's ever made. If she _understands_.

He does not know what he expected, but it was not to be just another man-at-arms in her ever-growing household. He watches her, though, from dark corners as he did in King's Landing. Sees the crowd of lords and advisors who dog her heels every waking moment. Sees the carefully constructed facade of the Queen of Winter, pale grey silks that highlight the fairness of her northern skin, an expression as severe as any Stark King of old. There is seemingly little left of the girl he once knew – only her hair is unchanged, worn long and loose, curling auburn tresses that shine like fire in the torchlight.

Then, one night, she walks right past him in the corridor, no maids, no lords in her wake. It is something akin to instinct that makes him step out from the shadows just as she passes him, put his hands on her shoulders and stop her dead. This close, he can smell the sweet scent of her hair, see the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she takes in a sharp breath. He does not know what he is doing. He knows he should let her go, apologise, but he doesn't want to (she stands queerly still, statuesque, as though waiting for him to decide). Instead, he pushes his fingers into her fiery hair, running his hand through the whole silky length of it as if he has any right to her.

But instead of screaming for her guards, the sound she makes is high and soft, somewhere between a sigh and a whimper.

"At last," she whispers, so quietly he wonders if he imagined it, until she tilts her head away from him, exposing her neck.

Sandor bends and presses his lips there, before drawing his Queen back into the dark alcove. She comes willingly, almost eagerly, and Sandor thinks he knows how he can make her lower her facade.


	8. Chapter 8

Prompt 8: kittens and shirtless Sandor

Sansa thought it delightful that Tommen still loved to play with kittens. A sweet-natured young man of sixteen, he had been a ward of Winterfell since the Dragon Queen had executed Cersei. He had little of his mother or elder brother in him, however, and it pleased Sansa to see that he had somehow retained his innocence, despite everything.

It dismayed Sandor, of course. Tommen had always been an enthusiastic student with the sword and lance, and to see such a promising boy cooing over the latest litter of kittens never failed to annoy him. Sansa couldn't help but find it amusing. For his part, Tommen's dedication to the _fluffy little wretches_ remained unwavering.

That was until the day Rickon came home.

Her youngest brother, at thirteen years old, was undoubtedly an impressive specimen. Tall as Tommen with a lean, wiry strength and a dark danger in his eyes that somehow reminded her of Sandor when he was younger.

Tommen was star-struck.

"Is it normal that one boy should obsess over another like this?" Sansa wondered out loud one day as she and Sandor watched Tommen take a step back from a snarling Rickon, only to follow on his heels a moment later with a puppyish look of adoration.

Sandor snorted in amusement. "It's not uncommon for one boy to idolise another, though it's not normally the older one doing the idolising. At least he's finally forgotten about the bloody kittens."

It was true. Impressing Rickon seemed to have entirely filled up Tommen's head until he had forgotten about everything else, including his kittens.

"If Rickon were a maid, the singers would be flocking north to write ballads about Tommen's suit," Sansa japed one night as they were lying in bed. There was a moment of thoughtful silence, before Sandor raised his head and they stared at one another in horror.

"Did you ever hear tell of Renly Baratheon and Loras Tyrell?" he asked her.

"Gods have mercy," Sansa half-laughed, half-moaned. "Rickon is only thirteen!"

"When I was thirteen-" Sandor began.

"I do not want to hear it," Sansa interrupted. "My little brother's virtue is at stake! What can we do?"

Sandor loved her. That was the only explanation as to why he let her chase him out of their bed in the middle of the night, clad only in hastily laced breeches, sent to retrieve the three fluffiest, most enchanting little kittens from their nest in the kitchens.

She met him outside the door to Tommen's bed chamber, juggling the three softly mewing balls up against his bare chest, glaring at her with five kinds of murder in his eyes. Quietly, Sansa pushed open Tommen's door.

"Just put them inside," she whispered, before gently pulling the door closed once more. "That should do it," she said, satisfied.

Sandor growled at her, and it was all she could do not to squeal when he tossed her up over his shoulder, hair dangling down towards the floor and rump in the air.

"You owe me for that, woman," Sandor rumbled, squeezing her bottom. Upside down, Sansa smiled at his back. _Yes, that should do it. _

_See Heliotropa's art here: post/31742086710/sandor-clegane-special-kitten-delivery-you-know _


	9. Chapter 9

Prompt 9: snow

The Lady of Winterfell is never alone. So many people at her court, so many demands on her time. An unmarried woman, she cannot even stir from her rooms without a female escort. It is stifling her, he can see that, but she is nothing if not dutiful, his little bird.

It is with a strange reluctance, then, that he follows her to the godswood. It is midwinter and the nights are dark. When the sky is moonless, and the dark is near-perfect, this is when she dismisses her maids and blows out her candles, and waits as patiently as a predator for the castle to slip into silence. Then she leaves her room to prowl the corridors with the same urgency of any wolf on the hunt, down to the midnight godswood.

He, her silent shadow, has no choice but to follow - guarding her, he tells himself.

The snow is thigh deep and crisp with cold, and he wonders idly what excuse she gives her maids in the mornings to explain away her wet cloak and skirts. She knows he is there, he is certain – not the naive little bird she once was – but she never orders him away, or speaks of it at all.

She never acknowledges him in any way, but it is their secret. He thinks he likes that.

Usually, she goes to the heart tree. He stands as far back as his vision will allow in the pitch black of the new moon, but still he can just make out the way she touches the ugly carved face, brushing snow from the ancient grooves left by some First Man's knife. He supposes she prays, as she does not attend the sept any more, but he never hears her, and most of the time he would not wish to – she deserves what little privacy he can give her.

Tonight is different, though. She does go to her queer weirwood tree, pausing in the clearing to gaze upon its face. But then she turns, searching him out in a way she never has before. When her eyes find his, glittering in the dark like an animal, she gives him a long, steady look before turning back and walking on past the heart tree.

He takes it to mean he is to follow.

Neither of them carries a lamp. Sansa knows her way through familiarity, and he has always just followed her trail through the snow. She has never trod this path before, though - at least not in his company - and he finds his senses on edge, extending forwards into the night like outstretched arms. Now he is a predator, too. Part of her pack.

It's slow going with the snow, and so bloody cold, but he follows her faithfully, silently. He stops when she stops. They are in another clearing, smaller than the first, with less snow. In the centre is a large, flat expanse of black - a pool? He can feel the warmth radiating from it from where he stands on the tree line.

Before him, standing on the edge of the pool, Sansa remains motionless for a moment. Then, there is the rustling of fabric. She is a faint, grey shape against the dark of the pool and the white of the snow, and so it takes him a moment to realise that she has disrobed. Entirely. Without conscious thought, Sandor takes two steps forwards, unable to trust his eyes. But it is true.

She looks over her shoulder at him again with those glittering, animal eyes, trembling slightly in the cold. Then she steps fluidly down into the pool until all but her head is hidden.

_No longer the predator, but the prey,_ Sandor realises. _One who wants to be caught._

He does her the courtesy of not questioning why, and unfastens his swordbelt and everything else, and follows her in.


End file.
